The Aftermath
by ahsfoxxay
Summary: Cordelia has a hard time dealing with Misty's death. Everyone copes in their own way.


It always starts the same way. The streets are alive as soon as the sun sets. Sometimes even before that when the clock strikes five and disheveled men pour into the bars, ordering whiskey and pretending that they shouldn't be at home with their families. They give you a look over, smile that pretentious smile that men seem to have. As if you're lucky they're picking you. You scoff, and hold up your ring finger, "Nice tan."

He grins sheepishly, barely ashamed. "Can you blame a guy for tryin?"

You scowl, replying sharply, "I'm not sure if simply removing a wedding band constitutes as trying." You get angry, suddenly and viciously, remembering a time where you would have giggled, maybe even have blushed at his comment. The man shrugs, and turns away, downing his drink. He almost looks like Hank. No, he doesn't. The scruff is too sparse, and his eyes are too light. Maybe you're just trying to find a way to justify taking him into the back alley and beating him until his facial features are unrecognizable and he no longer looks like any man you've ever met. Your fingertips tingle as they tap the glass, dark magic curling it's tendrils around your neck enticingly, promising to itch that scratch you've been having for weeks. Not yet. Tonight's the night but it's not for him, he's not what you're here for. The men are never what you're here for.

The time passes, a new drink somehow making it's way over to you each time your glass is empty. It takes off the edge; it's not like you can get drunk anyway. The inhuman tolerance to alcohol is definitely a downside to the Supremacy. A few more glances are thrown your way, but after a few more hours people seem to know better. You scan the crowd, searching auras, rather than bodies. Most of them are buzzing, shimmering with intoxication. It takes a few minutes but you finally find something close to what you're looking for. Bright, pure, and innocent. The rest of your drink is forgotten as you slide off your chair, and stalk off in search of the matching body.

She's dancing with her friends, a little awkwardly and it makes you smile. A real genuine smile. The girl is obviously not accustomed to moving her body in such a sexual manner and it's endearing. Innocence leaks from every pore and your eyes flutter shut as you bask in it. Her voice brings you back and you frown, no southern twang but that's okay; she's tall, blonde and you're a reasonable person. You can't always get exactly what you want.

The dance is always the same. You lead and she timidly follows, flushing uncontrollably. It's so hard to wait when she's melting into you but you ignore the ache in your hands and hold on tighter. It's good to draw this out, it makes the high that much more satisfying. She's squirming when your hands roam over her lower stomach and god, it's so hard to wait. Songs blur together and she's putty in your arms, panting lightly and grasping onto your forearms to study herself, knees buckling. You whisper something and you're not even sure she heard you but she agrees, spinning and slipping her hand into yours as you lead them out of the bar.

"Sorry," she murmurs, timidly pulling her hand away now that she's in the streets and no longer under the influence of the bar. You simply smile and grab her hand again and your eyes nearly roll back into your head when she blushes and looks away. You did good tonight. Her innocence is so familiar that you might even feel guilty for taking advantage of her. But it's not really _her._ It's never who you want it to be.

She's kissing you so softly, obviously inexperienced and all you can think is that it just keeps getting better and better. If you weren't wound so tightly after being vigilant for weeks, you might be mourning the loss of timid first-kisses you never got to experience. You were close though. So many times you could have just leaned over and kissed the sweet southern blonde but you never did.

 _Bazabi Iacha Bachabe. lamac cahi achahabi karrelyos. She got it and she's smiling, and laughing. Her words are drowned out by the blood roaring in your ears and all of a sudden she's grabbing you and pulling you in close. You're grinning so hard it hurts and she's mirroring the expression. Her face is so close to yours, within inches and you could just lean over and..._

You're torn from the memory by her hands scratching and tugging, to fight against your hands that are now wrapped around her throat, pressing down. She's pulling your hair, and tears are spilling from her eyes but you don't stop. This is what you've been waiting for. She's still struggling and suffering isn't the point so you reach over to your night table, rummage through the drawer and grab a knife. It's over quick and the blood is spilling into your hands. The blood is hot and real. So real, so much realer than the chalkiness of ash; a feeling you tried to forget for months after the Seven Wonders. It's all too much and your eyes snap shut, jaw hanging slack as you experience the euphoria you've realized comes with taking a human life.

The high never lasts long but your appetite is satisfied and you know you only have a few more moments to hold onto this feeling before the comedown. When you sob and shudder and shake for Misty. Where you know you should bring the poor girl back to life and let her go but you've made it your personal agenda to protect innocence. To protect the purity that sweet, naive Misty had torn from her under your supposed watchful eye as headmistress. It's your job to snuff out the innocence in a single swipe before the world does it through years of suffering; A _Catcher in The Rye_ of sorts. The tears come hot and fast as they mingle with the blood splatter peppering your face.

You need to bring the girl back. The guilt is overwhelming but you can't. Next month.

That's what you always say.


End file.
